


Clueless

by thekindofworld



Category: Clueless (1995), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Clueless AU, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, and pining, and self-indulgent aestheticism as usual, drunken puking, lots of pining, recreational use of cannabis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekindofworld/pseuds/thekindofworld
Summary: Harry and Louis do not like each other.Louis thinks its because Harry is a pretentious dickhead, Harry thinks its because Louis is a shallow idiot; Jay thinks its because they fancy each other, and well, a mother knows best.





	Clueless

**Author's Note:**

> For Tea, and because I have no self-control. 
> 
> <3
> 
> P.S As per usual, this work is entirely fictional and the names and faces used are not representative of real life.

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I loved writing it <3

* * *

 

The May sun touches the first blade of lush green grass over Devonshire moor and spreads quietly over the vast expanse of South West England, glinting on the unblemished bonnet of a silver Range Rover Phev, slowly warming the concrete of Illsham Marine Drive.

Simultaneously, it climbs through the shadows of the ten-bedroom manor house and up the white walls, streaming into the gaps in the blinds, casting a golden glow over the thin sheets draped over a sleeping Louis Tomlinson.

Nudging at his eyelids, it edges him awake like a hazy lullaby, and he groans loudly, squeezing them shut and rolling over onto his back.

“Shit.”

He tries to duck back under the fog of his dreams, but the sound of an en-suit shower turning on full blast wakes a fire in his veins that shoves him upright.

“I swear to god, I’m going to murder you.”

“Get fucked,” Lottie screams down the hall from her room and he growls, grabbing blindly at one of his pillows and launching it at his door as though that somehow harms her in any way.

“Green or blue?”

Daisy appears in his doorway, holding a blue silk Gucci shirt in one hand, and a satin green YSL in the other. He swallows on the icky taste in his mouth and wets his lips, squinting at her through one eye, coaxed further awake by the need for an opinion.

He sighs and peels the sheets from his skin where a surface layer of beady sweat has settled. Stumbling across the room, he tugs the blinds across by the cord, cracks the window wide, and lights a cigarrete. Leaning against the cool glass and letting out a long breath of relief, he swallows and looks properly.

“What with?”

“My denim shorts. High waisted.”

“Green,” he says. “And the Valentino loafers.”

“I love you,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs, before inhaling, finally opening both eyes and rubbing at them with his free hand. “Stick the kettle on for me. I’ll be down in a sec.”

“More like half hour,” she snorts, dropping the rejected green shirt down a level. “It’s a yellow kinda day for you, I reckon. With the pastel cut offs.”

“Kettle,” he snaps, throwing a pillow in her direction again, “now.”

It takes him fifteen minutes to decide on his Not Heartbroken London Loves LA tee, and his yellow plaid blazer, custom for him in a lightweight material. Its his hair that takes a little longer, as he styles it across his forehead and applies a touch of rose gold cream to his eyelids.

He fetches Doris and Ernie from their beds, one on each arm, the both of them sleepily curling into him and snuffling against his neck. They simply attach to their mum like little limpets when he enters the large kitchen, handing them over where she already sat typing on her laptop, hair tied up behind her head, still in her pyjamas.

“Thanks, love,” she smiles warmly as he places a coffee in front of her and kisses her cheek. “Big day today?”

“Steer’s got us reading out our essays on Hamlet,” he says, leaning against the counter and crossing one ankle over the other, sipping at his cuppa.

“You’ll do wonderfully. Got anymore thoughts on where you want your eighteenth birthday party?”

“I’m leaning towards The Imperial. S’local, and me and Liam popped in for a tour at the weekend; the balcony views are fucking gorgeous.”

“I’ll have Nigel see about negotiations and capacity,” she replies, tapping it into the diary on her phone. He inhales deeply through the steam lifting from the top of his mug and takes a second just to look at his mum, with his two baby siblings on her lap still drifting in and out of consciousness, and feels his heart swell ten sizes, the love overwhelming him.

“Hey, asshole,” Lottie pads into the kitchen in denim mini shorts and shiny gladiator sandals, her airy Valentino tucked into the waist line. She pushes up on her tippy toes and pecks at his cheekbone, “you’re dropping me in today, right?”

“And the twins,” he replies. “Fizzy’s getting a lift in with Nyla.”

“Ooooooh,” Lottie says, making her voice all cooey as Fizz slaps him up the back of the head in greeting. “Darling Nyla.”

“Shut your piehole,” Fizzy waves a croissant at Lottie’s face. “This is why you haven’t met her properly yet.”

“That’s offensive, I am a delight,” Lottie rebukes, but Fizzy just flips her the bird, grabs her bag, kisses their mum, and leaves.

“Are you ready?”

“Can’t even have a fuckin cup of tea in the morning anymore,” Louis huffs, tipping his drink down the sink and retrieving his phone and keys from the kitchen island, tucking them in the pocket of his trousers. He slides his Dior sunnies on and grunts as Lottie jumps on his back and Daisy and Phoebe trail out after them, arguing about the last night’s episode of Emmerdale.

“Harry’s coming for lunch tomorrow,” Lottie tells him as they drive into Torquay, the windows open and blowing in a cool breeze. She changes the song playing on the touch screen to Garrix’s Solo Dance, and Phoebe perks up in the backseat where she’s been texting her friend.

“For fuck sake,” Louis growls, frustration curling in his gut. This morning has just not been good for his patience in the slightest. “Why does no one tell me this shit?”

“I just told you.”

“How long have you known?”

“A week,” Daisy deadpans from the back as she tucks one leg under herself on the plush leather and smirks out at the sun glittering on the surface of the seafront. “He called me when I was shopping.”

“I hate you all.”

“Its your fault you hate him so much,” Phoebe snorts, swigging at the bottle of water she’d grabbed from the fridge before they’d scooted.

He glares at her in the wingmirror.

“How is it my fault?”

“You’re the only one who has a problem with him.”

“He wears high-tops.”

“I wear high-tops,” Lottie reminds him. “You’re clutching at straws.”

“He quotes poets,” Louis huffs. “Lookin down his nose at me like I’m some sort of brainless bimbo.”

“You imagine it,” Daisy tells him, running one hand through her hair to push it from her face and dropping her sunglasses over her face from where they’ve been perched on top of her head. “Mum says its because you fancy him and you’re not ready to admit it yet.”

Louis feels his stomach lurch and his brain short circuits, choking on his own saliva. He nearly runs a red light on Belgrave Road.

“Piss off,” he hisses, “I do not fancy him. He’s a pretentious twat.”

“You’re a pretentious twat,” Daisy laughs, “but suuuuure. Whatever keeps you sane, big brother. Whatever keeps you sane.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you lot think,” he says through gritted teeth, knuckles going white on the steering wheel. “I despise him.”

“Well the feeling isn’t mutual. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to be there either way. And he’s staying for the summer. Bath uni broke up early.”

* * *

 

He’s applying Charlotte Tilbury to his eyelids when he hears the first Maudlin notes of the fuckin Goo Goo Dolls, groaning to himself.

“What is it about university, and cry-babies?”

“Hey,” Harry’s drawl grates on Louis, soft and low and self-assured. All Louis can see from where he’s stood in the doorway of the kitchen is the black socks laden with holes, Harry’s long legs wrapped in tight black denim, and the drape of a twenty-year-old plaid that looks as though it hasn’t been washed in longer. “Who’s watchin the Galleria?”

The dickhead doesn’t even take his head out of the fridge to reply, and Louis grits his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What is that, a nod to the crispy Bristol weather, or are you just trying to stay warm in front of the fridge?” Louis asks as he moves toward Harry involuntarily to take a sweet potato chip from the stew pot on the island. He flinches, however, when the cold of the fridge is no longer prickling the hairs along the back of his neck, and suddenly there’s a hand pinching at the curve of his waist.

“Ooh, you’re uh – fillin out there, Lou.”

“Oh wow,” Louis retorts, voice so sickly sweet it could dig cavities, “your face is catching up with your mouth.”

“I went by mum’s office.”

“She’s not your mum, you’re just a straggler she won’t cut off the fuckin lead.”

They move to the living room, circling each other instinctively, and the air feels like its full of flies buzzing around Louis’ head, tickling at his skin.

“Just because my dad married someone else, doesn’t mean she’s my mother.”

“Actually, Cato, that’s exactly what it means,” Louis tells him. “I hope you’re not planning on staying at the house the whole time.”

Harry rolls his eyes as they collapse on the sofa, and Louis flicks the TV on, where a re-run of Towie is playing. He hates this whole ridiculous thing. This is _his_ space. Well, his space, and six other women’s, but its still not Harry’s. And he has no fucking right to come in here invading it with his weird sugary scent and his – for fuck sake, he’s switched over to the fucking discovery channel.

“I absolutely am. So, get used to it.”

“Shouldn’t you be staying in Paignton? I hear the lads there aren’t at all particular.”

“You’re not funny,” Harry tells him, huffing as Louis wrestles the TV remote back and changes over to Towie again, looking smug as the dulcet tones of Gemma Collins fill the room.

“You just got here and you’re already rubbing your grubby hands all over our shit.”

“Y’know, you might actually benefit from having a clue about what’s going on in our country?”

“You know you might actually benefit from disappearing to an island somewhere where you can live out your weird pretentious hermit fantasy and leave me the fuck alone,” Louis bites, glaring at the TV screen so he doesn’t have to look at Harry and his stupid face.

“Lads, dinner’s ready.”

The both of them can’t bolt up from the sofa quick enough, pushing and shoving each other to get to the dining room.

“Harry, baby, are you still growing? You’re taller than Boo Bear now!”

“Mum-”

“I don’t – I mean, I had a bit of a growth spurt,” Harry says awkwardly, and Louis hates how bloody charmed his mum looks.

“D’nt he look bigger, love?”

Louis ignores the fact that he’s only just noticing Harry has grown his hair out enough to wear it behind his head in a loose bun now, or that his jawline is so sharp it could cut class, or that somewhere in the last year he grew biceps and lost his baby chub. Although, when Harry reaches up to tighten the hairband, his shirt rides up and shows he still owns love handles that stick out a bit around the waistline of his ridiculously tight jeans. Louis swallows and averts his eyes, drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils.

“His head does,” Louis shrugs, and Daisy snorts from across the table where she’s trying to get Doris into her high chair. Harry playfully sticks his tongue out at her, and presents his cheek for Lottie to kiss when she brings Ernie to sit in his to her left when she takes her seat beside him.

“H, do you know what department of law you want to go into yet?”

“M’thinkin bout TWM solicitors,” Harry says as he pours himself a glass of wine. “There’s nowhere near enough of us in LGBT+ legal rep, and I’ve always wanted to work with Stonewall UK.”

“That’s fuckin amazing, Haz,” Fizzy crosses her legs underneath her in her chair and continues wiping her make up off for the day, smiling as Phoebe places her plate of food in front of her. Louis wants to be able to fault it, be mean about it, make some sort of smart alec comment; but he can’t. It is pretty amazing, and he can’t exactly argue Harry’s point this time.

“Oh, that is,” Jay’s eyes brighten and she grins, and Louis loves her, even when she loves Harry. “I’ll speak to Caroline about getting you a work placement next year. She owes me one.”

“Thanks, Jay,” Harry smiles wide and Louis wants to punch him in the face.

“No worries. Fiz, eat with your mouth closed.”

“Lou,” Lottie asks conversationally, “how did English go? Did you get your mock results back yet?”

“They’re not ready,” Louis announces, rather chuffed the attention is back on him.

“What does that even mean?” Daisy says, raising her eyebrows.

“It means they’re not ready. We’re negotiating.”

“How do you negotiate a fixed grade?”

Louis and his mum share a look that says she knows exactly what he’s talking about, and he winks at her.

“Never accept a first offer, love,” Louis replies to his sister, who is still regarding him with mildly alarmed admiration. “S’always just a jumping off point to start bargaining.”

Abruptly, someone’s phone starts ringing shrilly, and Doris starts gabbling and grabbing at her mash potato with her bare hands. They all scramble to answer, but its Jay’s, and she picks up immediately, getting all tense and brushing her hair off her face. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb as she stands up, and doesn’t even make it out of the room before she starts shouting down the phone at whatever imbecile fucked up this time.

“You’re such a brownnoser.”

“And you are such a superficial space cadet,” Harry narrows his eyes whilst Fizzy hands Daisy some of her make up removal wipes to clean off Doris’ mess. “What makes you think you can get teachers to change your mark on a paper that was marked my official adjudicators?”

“Only the fact that I do it every time they mark me down,” Louis turns his chin up and pops a piece of torn off bread in his mouth, feeling extremely pleased with himself, and loving the way Harry grumbles in annoyance.

This might actually be quite a fun summer.

* * *

 

He gets a fucking C.

A buggering C in English. For an essay he actually put mild effort into. He’s furious.

And tired, considering he spent all night bloody writing it.

Shrugging out of his blazer on the green, he folds it and places it on the grass beside him neatly, huffing as Liam settles beside him and lights a cig for him.

“A C,” he fumes.

“Savage,” Liam says, “absolutely savage. You should kick shit up with the school board. Unfair treatment that is.”

“I know,” Louis tokes, grimacing as he feels sweat drip down the dip of his spine. “Fuck it’s hot.”

“Want some Lynx?”

“You’re an angel,” Louis says, grabbing quickly at the deodorant Liam hands him and spraying it all over himself. “Y’know, this is just because Steer is plagued with geriatric perpetual loneliness. She’s taking her lack of sexual outlet out on my mark.”

“Or you’re just shit at English,” Zayn snorts as he approaches, sitting crosslegged beside Liam and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not shit at anything,” Louis insists, brandishing his cigarette in front of his face. “You’re shit.”

“And you’re not being creative enough,” Zayn tells him, smirking. “You say Steer’s lonely and sexually frustrated, right? So, fix it, babe.”

“I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Zayn. “I wasn’t suggesting that. But you’re clever. So be _clever_.”

Louis raises his eyebrows and sits back on Liam’s backpack, toking heavily and watching the smoke curl in front of his face, a slow smirk inching his lips up at the corners as a plan begins to form in his head.

* * *

 

Louis tells his Photography teacher that he’s in the middle of a bad break up, and sure enough when they get their scrapbooks back, his C has gone up to a B, which doesn’t usually mean anything for normal A Level students; only, if he wants to go into law later too, he’ll need a clean record across the board, even on coursework. Zayn had given Louis the lowdown that Henley has also recently had his heart broken by some prick from Hampstead.

And Coral, his sociology teacher, is particularly impressed with his promise that he’ll get his mother to speak to someone over at the BPS to look into a violation of human rights on a case from the eighties.

But Steer, in typical fashion, is a non-mover at the top of the charts, telling him his argument in his essay was, to quote ‘unstructured’. Which is the most offensive thing he’s heard in years because Louis _knows_ he could argue his way out of torture chamber if they just let him talk for ten minutes. Stressed, angry, and ready to stab someone with the heel of one of Lottie’s Louboutins, he does what he always does; he goes shopping.

“Lou, what the fuck is up with you? We’ve been shopping all day, and you still look like you’ve got a stick up your arse,” Liam says.

“I was hoping Steer would budge without the effort.”

“The effort of this master plan you’ve been going on about?” Liam snorts, sipping loudly through the straw of his iced mocha. “Are you going to tell me what it is yet?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t guessed already,” Louis sighs, as they come to sit on the benches in the harbour. “Steer is lonely and depressed, right?”

Liam swallows and crosses one leg over the other, looking mildly amused and a little apprehensive.

“Riiiiight.”

“Well I need to change that. She needs a good old fashioned boink, and a little romance. Get her quoting Shakespeare again in no time.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Louis wets his lips, sits up straighter, and lifts his chin, batting his eyelashes and full out grinning now.

“Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

* * *

 

So, the 411 on Miss Steer. She’s single, she’s 47, and she earns less than 20k a year for a thankless job. What she needs is a good shag and someone who won’t drop her like a sack of shit afterward.

Unfortunately, most of the male teachers practice bad hygiene, have no respect for or don’t know the first thing about women, and all own cars that are more than ten years old. So, Louis quickly adjusts to consider the female teachers, and considers himself a genius. What better than a companion for Steer who not only appreciates the stress of working a school full of idiotic hormone riddled trust fund posterchildren, but also someone who knows the perils of being a woman in an undermined position of power in a misogynistic economy that writes them off? Yes, Louis is very proud of himself for thinking of it; and its common knowledge that no one with a career in English Literature is exclusively heterosexual.

He immediately decides on Science teacher Miss Benedict. She’s much more butch, wears a lot of black, and has a good sense of humour; always has a reluctantly fond grin for Louis when he sees her.

So, come Monday, after a whole weekend of planning and attempting to ignore Harry walking around in his underwear all the bloody time, Louis writes a note in his neatest cursive.

“ _when I was young,_

_my heart was always on the run,_

_but you make loving fun._

_I never knew it could be_ ” – _secret admirer_

“Did you write that?”

“Duh,” Louis says when Liam reads it over his shoulder, “it’s a famous quote.”

“From where?”

“A-Z Lyrics.”

Steer’s voice drifts from the doorway of the school’s reception area and Louis and Liam scramble to shove the rose and paper into the correct pigeon hole, watching from the corridor as Steer sniffs the flower. Her eyes flit across Louis’ writing and her eyes widen and fill with tears, making his heart hurt more than he expected it to, a huge smile spreading over her mouth.

“Shit,” Liam says, equally choked up, fingernails digging into Louis’ arm. “She actually looks happy.”

“Classic,” Louis replies softly, sniffing away the sudden onslaught of emotion and shaking it off. “This is going to be amazing.”

* * *

 

“Zayn Malik, three absences. Mr Grimshaw, five absences. Mr Payne; one absence on account of – well, that’s alright. Mr Tomlinson; two absences-”

“Miss Benedict,” Louis pipes up, chewing on his pen. “I object. Do you recall the specific dates of these absences?”

“One of them was last week,” she says blandly, but there’s a spark of humour in her eyes as she sits back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and waiting for him to start spouting legal jargon.

“I was excused on account of childcare complications. As second legal guardian to-”

“Alright, alright,” she sighs, rolling her tongue around her mouth. “I’ll let that one slide.”

“Cheers, love,” Louis says, winking at her. “I knew Miss Steer was right about you.”

“Hmm?”

“Well,” Louis tucks one leg up under his chin on his chair and runs one hand through his hair. “She said you were the only one in the school with any intelligence.”

Benedict looks a little flustered as her plump cheeks go red and her breath catches, and she struggles to hide the bashful quirk of her mouth.

Score one to Louis.

* * *

 

“Loubear?”

“Mother, dearest?” Louis drawls as he slips out of his Reebok classics near the door and pads through to his mum’s office, leaning against the doorway.

“What the fuck is this?” her tone is sickly sweet but her syllables are sharp and have an edge of warning to them. He forces himself not to appear alarmed and looks her directly in the eyes.

“What?”

“This is a third notice for an outstanding speeding ticket.”

“I didn’t even know there was a first notice.”

“The first one was the _ticket_ ,” she says, brandishing the piece of paper at him. He grits his teeth, breathes in through his nostrils, and resists the urge to flip the finger at the twins, who are hiding behind the staircase listening in on his telling off. “I didn’t even know you could get tickets without a licence.”

“Well, yeah, you can get tickets any time,” he fails to sound even remotely innocent as she takes her glasses off and regards him with the Jay™ stare. He shivers a little and purses his lips.

“Oh, is that so? Well not under my roof you can’t. From now on, you’re going to have a responsible driver with you in the car at all times. Alright?”

Louis scratches at his stubble and nods.

“Yeah, course.”

“Do you hear me?”

“Yes, mum,” Louis says, smiling his most winning smile, knowing she has a weakness for it, and moving to bend down and kiss her where she’s still sat behind her desk. “Don’t worry.”

“Harry,” she calls after him as he walks away, and he freezes. “Take Harry with you. He might be able to teach you how to drive like a person who gives a crap about their wellbeing.”

Louis grinds his teeth together so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t broken them yet, counting to ten in his head and turning to look at her, narrowing his eyes at the smug, knowing look on her face. Behind the staircase, Daisy giggles.

“You’re transparent.”

“And I’m the one paying for your irresponsible behaviour. Now be a good lad and fetch Harry from his pit. I know you wanted to go shopping this afternoon.”

Louis growls.

* * *

 

Harry is lounged in the garden when Louis finds him, reading a Chbosky novel and dressed in grey joggers and a t-shirt, sunglasses covering his eyes from the sunlight, hair in a loose, messy French plait.

Louis drops down on the sunbed near his hip, jolting him and basking in the huff of annoyance Harry lets out.

“What the fuck is on your head?”

“I can’t tell you how much I enjoy these little chats of ours,” Harry sighs, “but in the interest of saving time. Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Okay,” Louis starts. “I have a provisional license and I can drive, but mum is on my ass about the speeding tickets and she won’t let me behind the wheel without a ‘proper driver.’ And since you’re just laying around mooching off of us and collecting dust waiting for the Hanson tribute band to call you back, I thought-”

“What are the chances of you shutting your gob until you get your way?”

“Slim to none,” Louis grins, winking and grabbing at Harry’s hand. “C’mon, Jagger. Get your kicks on, we’re going shopping.”

* * *

 

Driving with Harry isn’t actually… so bad. They have the windows open, its warm and the sun makes everything pretty and golden, reflecting off the sea. And Harry doesn’t even attempt to switch off the EDM music playing on low volume from the speakers.

“How uh – how long is this gonna take? I have a thing.”

“You can’t put a fuckin time limit on shopping,” Louis rolls his eyes, revelling in the gentle breeze that lifts the silk fabric of his shirt from his torso and making a small noise of gratitude when Harry places a cig between his lips for him and lights it. Hanging one hand out the window, keeping the other on the wheel, he nibbles on the inside of his mouth. “What’s your thing?”

“Its with the environmental society at Paignton Zoo,” Harry informs him. “We’re trying to get Dawn French to open a new reservation.”

“Fab,” Louis snorts, “getting Dawn French to take time out of her busy schedule filming Terrys Chocolate ads to cut a ribbon for you.”

“Y’know,” Harry leans his elbow on the window frame and tugs the hairband out of his hair, letting it fall around his shoulders and dragging it out of his face, “maybe she wants to use her popularity to do something good. She’s a patron for Falmouth Uni. Supports the arts. Makes contributions. In case you’ve never heard of that, a contribution is-”

“Save me your judgy bullshite, I’ve donated a shit tonne of expensive Italian outfits to Bloodwise this year; they auctioned them off and made about twenty grand out of them. And, I’m contributing many hours to helping two lonely teachers find love.”

“Which I’ll bet serves your interest more than theirs,” Harry grumbles, but primarily looks a bit impressed that Louis raised so much for charity.

“For someone who’s supposed to advocate for open mindedness, you’re a bit overly assumptive of who I am, arencha?”

Harry just swallows and grabs at the water bottle from the glove compartment, his rings glinting under the sunlight penetrating the windscreen.

“The rose,” Louis says, glancing at his hand again when it comes to rest in his lap. “What’s that for?”

“Gem got it for my twentieth,” Harry says distractedly. “Red light.”

Louis stops just on time before he runs it, watching the tourists playing around the fountain on the green.

“S’nice,” Louis comments awkwardly. It’s a lot easier to talk when they’re insulting each other. Learning shit about each other makes them both human, not just a buzzing annoyance; he suddenly feels a bit exposed and fragile.

“Thanks,” Harry replies quietly.

“I don’t remember your birthday.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Lou,” Harry says with a bitter sort of resignation. “I was – last year was a hectic one anyways. We only went for a meal.”

“Oh?” Louis frowns, curious but not sure if he’s allowed to push for an answer. He really fucking hates it when Harry calls him Lou. He always says it strangely; all soft and out of character. It does something funny to his stomach. Makes him feel nervous and confused.

“I took some time off uni,” Harry reveals of his own accord, swigging at his water again as Louis tokes on the cig. “Got a bit much.”

“Too many wild nights drinking your student loan?”

“Too many nights crippled with anxiety and exhaustion taking caffeine tablets to finish essays I couldn’t focus on,” Harry’s voice gets a little rougher then, a little defensive, and Louis feels like the worst person in the world for not knowing about this. H is… they’re not the best of friends, and the only time they spend together is when they absolutely have to, but he doesn’t actually hate him. Not really. And as much as Louis wants to cut up all his plaid shirts, he would never want Harry to feel so bad he had to give up on a degree.

“You’re back at uni now though, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry sniffs, rubbing at his eyes, and that Louis does know about; Harry has bad allergies, can’t get out of bed because of them sometimes. “Yeah, I’m… better, now. Jay got me a therapist and a tutor, to help me manage my studies.”

“Good,” Louis says, coughing and grateful for the excuse to keep his eyes on the road. “That’s uh – that’s good, Haz. M’sorry you had a shit time of it.”

“Are you?” Harry remarks, and his voice has returned mostly to normal, easing the tension between Louis’ shoulder blades. “Really?”

“I mean – fuck off, you’re teasing me.”

Louis cuts himself off when Harry actually giggles. Like, ridiculous light, mischievous giggle, with his hand coming up to cover his mouth, green eyes sparkling, giggle.

“I hate you.”

“Nah,” Harry says, tongue coming out to wet his soft bottom lip, “you don’t.”

* * *

 

Liam and Louis corner Benedict in her lunch break the following Wednesday, a flask of pre-prepped hot coffee ready, feeling very smug.

“Do you drink coffee, Miss B?”

“Not from the canteen here,” she quips, hands in the pockets of her black skinny jeans. “But yes, under normal circumstances.”

“Well, I’m a dumbass. When I was making mum’s breakie this morning, I gave her my herbal lemon, and I took her Italian roast. You want it?”

“Don’t you want it?”

“Um, no?” Louis snorts, like the concept is completely ludicrous. “Have you seen me? I don’t touch anything that might stunt my growth.”

“Louis,” Benedict says bluntly. “You have a lit cigarette in your other hand.”

Louis opens his mouth to retort, but Liam interrupts him before he can say something offensive and ruin their entire plan.

“But we thought you and Miss Steer might want to share it? I hear she likes good coffee too.”

“Uh… thanks?” Benedict says, a little apprehensive and unsure, but taking the drink from Louis nonetheless. As she walks away, Liam slaps Louis hard on the ass in congratulations. They rush to hide behind a tree when Benedict sits down on the bench beside Steer a moment later, the sun making their little tryst look like a photo op, and both Liam and Louis nearly fall over holding onto each other in excitement when the two teachers exchange phone numbers.

They are officially the best match makers in the history of match making.

* * *

 

“I can’t believe – it worked?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Louis as he drags his teeth over his bottom lip and pays the barman for the two pints they’ve ordered.

Near the window, on the upper level, Steer and Benedict are leaned over a sticky table opposite one another, hanging onto each other’s words like they’re lifelines. Harry looks absolutely baffled as Louis leads them out back to the smoking area, sitting down under the shade of a white umbrella marked with sponsored ads for ice cream and Stella Artois.

“My C is now an A,” Louis tells him, lighting up and adjusting his mass of bags from TopMan, River Island, and a new watch from F.Hinds. “And you should believe the rumours.”

“What rumours?” Harry furrows his brow as he swigs at his Carlsberg. He looks… different today. Louis isn’t sure how, but his white wash jeans are high waisted, the t-shirt tucked into them is _Gucci_. Louis has the same one in his wardrobe somewhere, he’s sure, and with the pink converse high tops on Harry’s feet, and the way his chestnut curls have been left down to tendril around his shoulders, his pantos Raybans keeping it off his face; Louis thinks he looks like something out of Okay mag. Not a plaid shirt in sight. 

“That I am a formidable businessman in the making who will one day take over the world.”

Harry barks out a loud laugh, causing people nearby to stare and Louis’ heart to flutter in his chest, making him feel a bit sick if he’s being honest. In the sort of way one gets when they have a – no. No. Not happening. Absolutely not.

“A formidable businessman in a cropped Balenciaga jumper and high waisted, skintight tartan trousers?” Harry snorts, looking Louis up and down, laughter still creasing the corners of his eyes.

“Since when do you pay attention to what people are wearing?” Louis retorts, flicking ice at him when he pokes his tongue out.

“Liam tells me you have a new project already.”

Louis squirms, bristling. Harry is on first name basis with all of Louis’ friends now; actually has Zayn’s number, and seems to have somehow infiltrated every corner of Louis’ life.

“Liam should keep his trap shut.”

“Who’s Niall?” Harry waggles his eyebrows. Louis narrows his eyes and huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifts awkwardly and despises Harry for making him all antsy all the time.

“New guy in sixth form,” Louis replies, drinking his fosters for something to do with his hands. “He looks like a reject from a Livewire concert at the Eden Project. M’rehabilitating him.”

“Louis, just let him be. You don’t have to dress people up for them to be beautiful.”

“Don’t start with your deep shit. I’m not trying to change his personality,” Louis bites, skin feeling too hot all of a sudden. “He doesn’t have any friends and he’s a good kid; good heart. Besides, he loves it. He washed his hair for the first time in a year the other day.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up and Louis nods triumphantly.

“Yeah, exactly. So, hush your gums.”

“Just – don’t overwhelm him. If he trusts you, take it seriously.”

* * *

 

The moon shines full and hazy over the Devon coast, the inky black surrounding it illuminated by the streets of Paignton and Torquay as summer night life dances to its thick, bassy thrum, and the summer breeze blows salty sea air through inland suburbia.

Headland Road is deserted of its adult residents for the evening, most of its inhabitants aged over thirty attending a big charity event in Truro, leaving empty, illustrious houses, and spoilt A Level students to do what they want with their homes into the early hours of the morning.

Naturally, Louis, Niall, and Zayn and Liam are present up at South Cliff, parking Zayn’s Dacia in the drive with Aga Williams’ Ferarri, Vicky Thomas’ brand new Lambo, and a mass of other shiny and incredulously expensive cars that probably shouldn’t be entrusted to seventeen-year olds, most of whom still only have provisional license plates.

Louis, being eighteen and the oldest of the group, has been tasked with buying the alcohol, but in typical fashion, it’s the others that haul the heavy crates of beer and cider from the boot. Everyone knows Louis is catered to whenever he is owed it, which is all the time, because he spends most of it looking after the people he loves, and doesn’t have to request that they make things easier for him in return. It just happens.

But, tonight especially. It’s the anniversary of his biological father’s passing, and as much as Liam had tried to advise him that a party full of stimulants and blurred inhibitions in excess is not a good idea when he’s overly emotional, he is bloody determined to prove to them that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. His dad was a dick and treated his family like shit, and he is _fine_.

“Alright, lads,” Louis says, rubbing his hands together, chest beating with the loud beat vibrating from the already thriving party in front of them, “let’s do this.”

“Lou,” Niall says, closer than Louis had thought, his hand landing warm and solid in the small of Louis’ spine, “you good?”

“All good, Nialler,” Louis grins, already a little high, and grabbing Niall’s face, pressing a sloppy kiss to his mouth before grabbing in a headlock. “The night is young. Now, about this Steve you’re into. How’s about we get you a man in the bag?”

* * *

 

Louis should listen to Liam.

Its always the case. He comes to the conclusion too late, and usually when he’s inebriated and in over his head, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

He’s outside, laid on the grass of the freshly mowed lawn, skull heavy, eyes closed, breath short and lilted as it travels up his oesophagus, like if he’s not paying what little attention he’s capable of, he’ll forget how to keep filling his lungs and just… drift away.

There are people around him of course, scattered about; some of them are stood up on the patio near the French double doors on all sides of the house, drinking and laughing and smoking and loosing their grip on sobriety slower than he has, but loosing it all the same.

Sometime during the party he’d lost his friends; Zayn and Liam arguing about something in the bathroom like they always do, dramatic Jezza Kyle act in full swing as it always is when they’ve had a few. They’ll make up by the end of the night, and be fine again tomorrow morning.

And Niall had been dancing with Steve when Louis can last recall seeing him, looking lighter and preening under the attention, as he fully deserves to after being so starved of it for so long.

Louis craves that, he thinks. Everyone looks at him, everyone envies him, everyone either wants to be him, or on him, or both. Usually both. But its so fucking fake. Its bullshit. Its not real. He just wants it to be real for once. To know someone is looking at him and thinking ‘I wonder what’s underneath?’ And not under the expensive designer clothes, but the skin. What’s in the chest? What’s in the head? What does he feel about the world? What does he want for the future?

His family care. Of course they do.

But its not the same. Or maybe it is?

Its muddled. He’s muddled. And a bit cold. Or possibly just shaky. Maybe it’s the weed? Maybe it’s the effects of the five shots of vodka he’d done in one go a little while ago. Or maybe it was an hour. Two hours? Three? He can’t tell. But its fine. Its fine. It’s all just fine.

“Louis?”

Definitely the weed. He’s clearly hallucinating Harry’s voice saying his name. Because that’s where he’s at now apparently; that is where his subconscious goes when he’s overindulged on cannabis. Harry bloody Styles and his stupid green eyes and pink lips and his smooth skin. Fuck him. Fuck him and his deep voice and the way it sounds when he’s sleepy or vulnerable or angry. Fuck.

“Louis, c’mon, you need to sit up.”

There it is again.

“Louis, I mean it. You’re going to choke on your own vomit if you don’t sit up right now.”

Its cutting through the fog quickly and something prickles to life in the back of his mind, shooting jolts of awareness through his nervous system, nudging his reluctant limbs into action. He feels himself groaning and suddenly he’s back in his body, parts of it still awkwardly numb, but in mostly working order as he pushes himself up to sit.

His teeth are chattering and his blood feels thin in his veins, his whole world spinning wildly. His gut lurches and his throat contracts and – yep, he’s puking. Quite violently, all over the grass. Something reminds him there are other people around witnessing this, but it hurts and his heart hurts and he’s crying now, but doesn’t have the bodily strength to move with it, so he’s just slumped against someone.

Someone warm and strong, who smells a bit sugary. He manages to get one eye open and finds himself looking down at knees, his own legs bent over them, one hand resting on his thigh, the index finger clad with a silver rose ring.

“Ha-”

“Don’t try to talk, you twat,” Harry’s voice is real. Its real, and gentle, and thick with concern where it speaks against his ear, breath tickling over his pulse point. Louis swallows heavily on a raw throat, and Harry hands him some tissue to wipe his face off with.

Slowly, Louis airways start to clear and his stomach stops spasming, and the air on his skin feels more like relief than nausea. He opens both of his eyes and looks around him, vision still blurry and dizzy, but far less so than twenty minutes ago.

No one is watching; everyone is more interested in their drinks, their food, or their conversation than they are in the fact that he just threw his guts up.

“Whiteyed out,” Louis says croakily. “This is so fuckin ‘mbarassin.”

“Y’know you’re not meant to mix vodka with weed, Lou,” Harry sighs, moving back a couple of millimetres to test if Louis can support any of his own weight yet. He can, just not very productively, so Harry keeps a hand on his shoulder as he climbs to his own feet, then holds them out for Louis. He swallows again, draws in a deep breath, blinks heavily to clear some of the stinging wetness from his sight, then takes Harry’s palms, bracing himself for gravity.

Its horrible. Like being upthrusted through a tsunami of water. His feet are flimsy and awkward, his ankles bolting slightly, but Harry catches him, wrapping an arm around his waist and directing Louis’ arm to drape over his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says, “we’ll go round the back. Just a few stragglers out front; won’t even notice us.”

* * *

 

The rest of the weekend passes uneventfully.

Niall calls him the next day and tells him he left right on time because the old bill turned up a little while after and broke the whole thing up. Natasha Harrington, the girl who had hosted the shebang, has had her bank account frozen by her parents for a whole month and has had her car confiscated for the foreseeable future, is grounded for even longer.

No one is talking about Louis’ little incident because of the police drama, and all Louis does is sleep and throw up a couple more times, and order a Papa Johns for himself. Luckily, his mum has to go into the office on the Saturday, so the only way she’d know Louis has the hangover from hell is if the girls told her, and they don’t; the glorious, fiercely loyal angels that they are.

Lottie even comes and sits with him for a few hours on his bed, talks for ages about dumping her boyfriend and the new theatre play she wants to get involved in at school before she finishes her GCSEs.

He doesn’t see Harry until midday, when he appears in the doorway with Phoebe and Doris in tow, Fiz and Daisy out in the garden with Earnie playing football, the sound of their game drifting up through the open windows. They sit at the bottom of his bed and his room is filled with laughter and banter. Louis meets Harry’s eyes, watching him where he’s stood leant against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, a small smile on his lips.

They don’t say anything to each other, but they don’t need to.

* * *

 

Christian turns up on the Thursday, sitting behind Louis and calling him ‘Duchess’, which he’d normally kick off about, but the shallow part of him rather likes it, so he lets it slide as long as it doesn’t get patronising. Not to mention Christian is gorgeous, and a little bit cheesy, but whatever, what’s life without a little cheese?

Liam and Zayn don’t like him at all, but Louis tells them to fuck off, and asks him out anyway.

“I can’t just open the door straight away, gotta keep em waiting.”

“Well he can wait outside,” Louis’ mum shouts back from the dining room, and Louis pouts.

“Harry, hurry up!”

He hears Harry cursing under his breath, but a second later, footsteps out into the foyer and the sound of the door opening.

“Louis?”

“He’s not ready,” Harry says condescendingly, taking the hat Christian makes to hand him, and drops it back on his head. Louis grits his teeth, but doesn’t make a scene with Christian in the vicinity. Can’t let him know family drama before they’ve even had their first date.

“Prick,” Louis mutters under his breath.

“Hey! Nice house, Mrs Tomlinson.”

“Its Deakin,” Jay corrects the swaggy idiot stood grinning like a Cheshire cat in front of them. “Do you drink?”

“Nah, m’good thanks.”

“I’m not bloody offering you,” Jay draws in a sharp breath through her nose and adjusts her glasses where they rest on the bridge of her nose. “I’m asking you if you drink. You think I’d give alcohol to a teenager taking my son out?”

“Protective. I like it. S’cute.”

 “Who the fuck are you?” Jay raises her eyebrows. “You think Sammy Davis left an opening in the rat pack?”

Harry start’s spluttering on a laugh but his entire body freezes as Louis comes down the stairs, dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans, black brogues, and a loose beige YSL with his last name embroidered custom over the breast. The first three buttons open, revealing the cursive ink of his tattoo lilting along the bottom of his collarbone, skin golden and gorgeous. His eyelids are brushed with the rose gold stuff he likes to use again, and he’s styled his hair off his face for once, let it wave a bit, his stubble shaped to accentuate the sharpness of his collarbones.

Heat floods Harry’s veins and he swallows on a dry throat as Louis wets his mauve lips with the tip of his tongue and rubs his hands together, his fingernails painted a glittery ivory colour.

“Chris,” Louis grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, irises stunningly blue as they sparkle. His cheeks hollow when he kisses Christian’s and Harry feels fire flicker up and burn in his gut, his hands itching to do something. He hates it. That Christian is touching Louis, his fingers placed in the curve of his waist. Its wrong.

“Gorgeous,” Christian greets, kissing him back.

“You’re uh – you’re not letting him go out like that, are you?”

“Like what?”

“He looks like-”

“Louis, come here, love.”

Louis steps into the room, looking unconvincingly innocent as he regards Jay.

“You’re putting a coat on, right?”

“I was just going to,” he winks at her, and Harry wants to hit something.

“Oi,” Jay says as Louis goes to get his jacket, grabbing Christian’s attention again. “Anything happens to my son; I have a licenced Glock and a shovel.”

“Bye mum. Shitface,” Louis bids them adieu and Harry can’t even bring himself to think of a comeback as Jay returns to her laptop. He ducks his head and purses his lips. He can’t settle. He still feels like he’s burning up as he sits back in his chair and drags his curls up behind his head in a bun, trying to let the cool air get to his neck.

They listen to the sound of Christian’s little red Corsa leaving the driveway and Harry can’t stop biting his nails.

“I don’t like him.”

“What’s to like?” Jay says distractedly, eyes not leaving the screen.

“Maybe I should go to the party.”

“If you want to,” she replies, apparently engrossed in her work again, although her mouth twitches at the corner.

“Unless you want-”

“Harry,” she cuts across him, smirking. “Go to the party.”

“Okay,” he says awkwardly, standing up and nearly falling over the chair leg where he’d forgotten his ankle was curled around it. “I’ll watch him for you.”

“Hmm,” she continues smirking, going back to the contract she’s looking over. “You do that.”

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

Louis is dancing.

He’s sweating a bit, and craving a cigarette since he hasn’t been able to have one since lunch time, but its fun. And he hasn’t had fun in a really long time. Christian is funny too, makes him laugh. He’s really getting into it, when Niall waves at him from the entrance. He makes to wave back, but Niall slips and falls down the fuckin stairs, because of course he does. Louis snorts and huffs, running to him immediately and helping him to his feet.

They’re about to go and get some drinks when Niall’s attention gets diverted and his face falls. Louis is already plotting murder before he even spots Steven, a growl crawling up his throat when he sees him dancing all over Michelle.

“Fuck,” Niall swallows. “You think she’s pretty?”

“Nah, mate, she’s a full on Monet.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“She’s alright from a distance, but get up close, she’s a mess. Nowhere near as pretty as you,” Louis assures him, kissing the corner of his mouth and ruffling his hair. “See, hey, Chris. What you think of ‘Shell?”

“Hag,” he says as he approaches. “Got any change? I’m all out and I want a beer.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Yeah,” Louis unenthusiastically hands him a fiver, and Chris is gone. A little deflated, Niall smirks and drapes an arm over his shoulders.

“Look who just got here,” Niall drawls, eyebrows flicking upward as he squeezes Louis close, nodding to where he’d just come in.

And jesus fucking christ Louis wants to scream.

Stood at the top of the steps dressed in an oversized plaid, a t-shirt with fuckin holes in it, and mom jeans and converses, is Harry, his hair tugged up behind his head, two curls framing either side of his face and tickling at his collarbones. He looks ridiculous at this party, completely out of place.

“Of course he finds the only adult in here, like he’s determined to be a bore,” Louis huffs, watching as Harry starts talking to the bouncer. He spots him and waves, and Louis waves back with a forced smile, rolling his eyes. He feels all antsy all of a sudden, like something is itching at him.

“Ready to dance again?”

Louis throws himself into Christian’s invite as he drags him back to the dancefloor, but for some reason he just can’t find the beat again, too distracted as he glances over at Niall failing to dance alone. He pretends to laugh at something Chris says, and when he looks back, Harry is sat in a booth with Niall close, grinning and bantering.

When he tries to pay attention to Chris, he’s dancing with a girl, completely oblivious to the fact that Niall and Harry are now goofily waltzing to fucking JLS. He wants to bang his head against a brick wall.

Instead of bothering with the music anymore, he weaves through the mass of smelly, horny teenagers, and sits at the bar, where he spend the next two hours drinking non-alcoholic cocktails and watching Niall get far too drunk and branch off with other people, eventually coming back over and collapsing in Louis’ lap, half-asleep.

At closing, Harry comes to sit beside them, sipping a coke through a straw and smiling at him.

“Ready to go?”

“So ready,” Louis replies, too exhausted to keep the sheer relief out of his tone.

“You uh – you wanna say bye to your boy?”

“He’s not my boy,” Louis says blandly, looking over at Chris still dancing ridiculously with his third girl of the night. “And no. He can fuck off.”

Something unreadable crosses Harry’s face then, before a grin almost splits his face and Louis feels his heart do something weird. He swallows down on the emotion clawing up his throat, and nudges at Niall.

“M’tired.”

“I know, babe,” Louis says, “we’re going home now.”

* * *

 

“Thanks for uh – spending time with Ni tonight.”

“S’nothin; he’s wonderful,” Harry replies as they get in the car, Niall snoring in the backseat. “You didn’t stay out very late though.”

“Eh,” Louis shrugs, rubbing his eyes. “Its not like my mum will be sleeping anyway.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty into this case. It needs overnight attention.”

“We should get them some food,” Louis says, “stop off at Tesco’s, get some energy drinks and croissants and shit.”

“That’s a – Lou, that’s a fantastic idea actually. I’m sure she’d – she’d love it.”

So that’s what they do. They leave Niall snoring in the care with the window slightly open so he doesn’t suffocate, and buy a trolley full of food from the 24 hour Tesco’s. His mum is so grateful that she nearly cries, a resounding and desperate thank you from the rest of her team where they’re all sat around the dining table in a swarm of paperwork and laptops.

Louis doesn’t sleep much, with Niall draped over him bodily drooling on his t-shirt. He can’t stop thinking about Harry. Every time he tries to focus on something else; anything else, he always just keeps coming back to Harry. Its driving him bonkers. He’s an idiot. He knows he should get his act together, but he literally failed his driving test two days ago and can’t re-take it for another six months. He’s still all shaky and weird about alcohol since he fucked up and got too messy a couple of weeks back, and he has no idea what he’s going to do when he finishes school on Friday for good.

It’s all boiling down to one conclusion; he is completely clueless.

Why the fuck can’t he get Harry out of his head, anyway? He dresses funny, he listens to complaint rock, he’s like this… slug that just hangs around the house all the time. And he can’t dance for shit, couldn’t take him anywhere. With his loud, obnoxious laugh and clumsy baby deer limbs. What is Louis even stressing about? This is… Harry.

Alright, so he’s tall and charming and ridiculously endearing, and… yes, alright, for fuck sake, he is gorgeous; his eyes are beautiful and his lips are maddeningly pretty and his dimples could probably guarantee world peace. Clever, passionate, creative, thoughtful. And a bit filthy.

And then it kind of hits Louis, at 2:34 am, with Niall Horan talking in his sleep against his chest; he’s in love with Harry Styles.

Completely and utterly arse over tit in love with Harry Edward Styles.

Shit.

He can’t lay there anymore. He has to move.

Detangling himself from Niall, he grabs a t-shirt and steps into some grey adidas trackies, draping himself in a hoodie and padding quietly downstairs, his mind buzzing.

Its quiet, and he can’t hear anything but the sound of his mum’s fingers tapping away at her laptop keyboard from her study.

“Louis,” she says, sensing him before he’s even announced his presence, “get in here.”

“Mum.”

“What are you doing awake so late, boo?”

Just the sound of her soft, loving voice laced with concern soothes out the cricks in his muscles and makes him draw in a shuddery breath.

“I just – I wanted to see if you needed any help with anything?”

She looks at him for a few seconds, trying to read him. She wets her lips and nods, pushing her glasses further up her nose and smiling.

“Yeah, you can help me with something. C’mon, sit.”

She grabs some documents and moves over to the sofa, gesturing for him to come and take a place beside her. Louis swallows and pushes a stray strand of hair from his face, crossing his legs underneath him and taking the paper and highlighter she offers him.

“Every time you see a phone convo that happened on the third of September, highlight it. S’fun, right?” she winks at him, and he sniffs out a small laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Sure.”

They settle in, but Louis knows she’s waiting for him to start talking, which he does, a few minutes later.

“Did uh – mum, did you ever have a problem that you couldn’t… argue your way out of?”

“Tell me the problem, and we’ll figure out how to argue it.”

Louis sighs heavily and sits back a bit, trying to figure out how to phrase it. This is the best environment he could be in to deal with it though; the study is warm and plush, with cosy lighting, and his mum is his very best friend in the whole world.

“I – I have… stirrings. For this boy. But um… I don’t think he feels the same way.”

“How is that even a thing?” his mum says, raising her eyebrows.

“I feel fucking shite,” he admits, huffing in defeat.

“Well obviously this lad is a complete knobjockey,” she insists, looking outraged. “You are the most beautiful person, boo; and to tell you the truth, I don’t want you with anyone who doesn’t know that.”

“To be honest,” Louis admits, rubbing antsily at his face, “he is a smart guy. One of those uh – those do gooder types, you know? And now I kind of feel like… I’m not really good enough?”

“That’s bullshit. I’m sorry, Lou; that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Who takes care of everyone in this household? Louis, you’ve basically been a secondary caregiver for six other children since you were little. You’re my _rock_. You’ve changed nappies, you’ve been pissed on and thrown up on for years. I can’t get anywhere near anything even remotely unhealthy because you keep putting healthy shit in front of me; I’d be a total mess without you helping me. I feel so guilty sometimes, because you do so much and I just… let you. You’ve given thousands upon thousands of pounds to charity, you’re intelligent and strong and brave. You are an incredible, wonderful human being, Louis Tomlinson, and I wont ever have you thinking you’re not good enough for someone. Especially not some spotty teenager who can’t see the world when its being offered to them. Now get back to work.”

Louis laughs again, unable to help himself, despite the wetness in his eyes and the way his heart feels ten times bigger than before. He loves her. So much. He leans forward and kisses her cheek and she tuts at him, batting him away, a little misty eyed herself.

They spend the next couple of hours working, then head back up to bed.

When Louis curls up next to Niall again, he stirs and cracks one eyelid, frowning a bit.

“Y’kay?”

“Yeah, babe,” Louis tells him, kissing his forehead. “All good. Go back to sleep.”

“Hmm,” Niall mumbles, shuffling in closer and nuzzling Louis’ cheekbone. “Love you, Lou.”

“Love you too, Nialler,” Louis smiles, closing his eyes and finally dropping his head to the pillow, letting his dreams carry him away.

* * *

 

He’s too busy for the rest of the week to even think about his Harry problem, spending as much time away from the house as possible, and getting taxis everywhere so he doesn’t have to sit in the car with him.

On Friday, he drags Liam and Zayn along to Niall’s new boyfriend’s skate thing, which Zayn enthusiastically critiques and cheers for, Louis draping himself over their laps and sunbathing with a bottle of beer and a cigarrete. Its fun, and Niall’s boy, Josh, is actually pretty good. Bit of a stoner, and a bit weird, but that’s fine; Louis’ aversion to plaid isn’t quite as malicious as it used to be, and he’s a fan of anyone who can make Niall smile in the way Josh does.

Being done with school isn’t quite as stressful as he thought it would be. He’s decided he’s not going to pressure himself into having an immediate plan, that he’s just going to enjoy the rest of the summer and see where it takes him.

Without the crippling anxiety of existential responsibility, he’s free to spend time with his siblings in the garden listening to music and splashing about in the pool. Their mum even joins them a couple of times, simply getting too frustrated with work and the fact that she’s missing out on time in the sun with her babies, and taking a breather anyway.

Harry is still around, mostly. He’s been taking off to Paignton a lot, and Louis knows it might be because he has a boyfriend he’s just not telling them about or something, which makes his gut do this painful twisty thing and causes him to come over all nauseated and panicky; but there isn’t a lot he can do about it, for fear of not liking what he hears if he asks.

It all comes to a head the following Sunday.            

His mum is out at the field office, leaving behind one of her junior solicitors with Louis and Harry helping out with the paperwork. And really, Louis isn’t consciously flirting with him; its just what kind of happens. Now they both know their banter is just banter, and not the real animosity that had faded a while ago, its lighter, and more teasing. It makes Louis feel kinda giddy, actually, with Harry’s foot wrapped around his ankle under the table and their knees nudging at each other.

Louis lifts Harry’s plait with his biro, snorting.

“You look like pippy longstocking,” Louis says, and Harry pouts.

“Heeeeey,” he replies, poking Louis in the ribs, causing him to jolt and nearly scribble across the page. “You look like… Cher Horowitz.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult, Styles? Because Cher was an icon.”

Harry just sniffs and stretches, long arms extending above his head, white t-shirt riding up and revealing the careful ink of the laurels framing the dip of his hips. The skin is smooth and his perpetual love handles stick out a bit around his waistline, and Louis wants to leave marks there, bite at them, grab them and leave fingerprint bruises and pepper kisses over them.

“Where are the August 28th files?”

“Hm?” Louis says automatically, blinking himself back to reality, skin hot and prickly, breathing slightly laboured. The plaid shirt he’s commandeered from Harry in the last few months swamps him and makes his predicament so much worse. And kind of heavenly at the same time.

“Jay wanted them tonight, there were twice as many.”

“She’s going to go ballistic. Where are they?” the asshole of a baby solicitor is getting more and more worked up and through the arousal, Louis feels panic set in as he realises what he’s done.

“I… I think – I marked them for the September 3rd conversations…”

“Where – fuck, okay, uh, where did you put them?” Harry asks, and Louis can hear him trying to keep a lid on the fireworks.

“I divided them into two piles. Is – shit, is that wrong?”

“Yes,” the solicitor, Connor, Louis thinks he’s called, starts to really lose his patience. And Louis is not fucking okay with being made to feel like a piece of shit for a mistake he didn’t mean to make. “Are you an idiot?”

“Hey, Pal-”

“Woah,” Harry cuts across him, voice lower and deeper than ever, sounding eerily calm. “Have a bit of respect, alright, asshole?”

“This is going to set us back a whole day. Who cares about the September call? Now we’re screwed.”

“Look, mate, I’m sorry-”

“Just, forget it, okay? Just go back to the mall or something. You two and your fucked-up puppy love have lost us twenty-four hours we can’t afford to lose.”

“Seriously,” Harry stands with Connor. “Don’t fucking speak to him like that. What’s your problem?”

“I’m gonna get torn a new one because he’s a fucking moron.”

“You have ten seconds,” Harry says, still far too still for Louis to feel like he can even breathe. Harry isn’t – he doesn’t _get_ angry. Not really. He gets grumpy or irritated or sulky, but he doesn’t lose his temper. And this? This is Harry losing his temper. It’s like waiting for an unexploded unclipped grenade to go off. “Get out of this house before _I_ tear you a new one.”

Connor stares for a few moments, clearly still fuming, but sensing he’s going to get his dick ripped off if he voices it any further. Instead, he grits his teeth, grabs his briefcase and blazer, and leaves. Louis still feels completely stunned. All he can do is push his chair out from the table so he has more room to extend his legs, feeling a bit trapped and overwhelmed, and terrified that he’s fucked it up for his mum.

“Hey,” Harry says, crouching and looking Louis forcefully in the eyes. “You’re fine, okay? Jay is not going to blame you. She gets that you’ve had a lot on your plate. Its fine, Lou.”

And it just strikes Louis so hard then. Harry was just a few seconds ago all set to break Connor’s neck for disrespecting him, but the soft, almost reverent way he says ‘Lou’ now is overwhelming, like some sort of one-word hymn. Its never not like that.

“Louis, he’s the one that screwed up. He should have been paying more attention. He’s the professional. Its his job. And – just – the nerve of him. And suggesting we were-”

“Haz, you’ve been nothing but committed to this case, alright,” Louis finally remembers how to speak.

“Its – s’been a good learning experience, at least for me,” Harry says, shrugging and tugging the hairband from his hair, scratching at his scalp and pushing it from his face. “I want to be a solicitor. But you, you don’t need to be doing this, Louis. You should be out having fun. Go shopping or something. Let me worry about this.”

“Oh,” Louis says, the assumption stinging. “You think that’s all I am? A ditz with a credit card?”

“Fuck,” Harry says, grabbing at Louis’ knees, drawing his eye contact again. “No, jesus, Lou, that’s not what I meant. Its ju-we-uh-no-bu- shit. Look, you’re – you’re young. And… beautiful, and…”

“And?”

“And – uh – well… what?”

Louis can’t help laughing, the soft sound tumbling from his lips as he tilts his head slightly and smiles, going warm again, his heart skipping a beat, pulse audible in his ears.

“You reckon I’m beautiful, huh, Styles?”

“Uh… well… look, you know you’re gorgeous, okay, and… clever and interesting and brave but… fuck… that’s just – that’s not why I uh – why I come here. I – this is a good learning experience for me.”

Louis feels that tingling again; and it almost hurts, aches in the best, most amazing way. He feels high without the drugs, like he’s walking on water, and watching Harry try to mumble his way through the conversation is both hilarious and incredible; his eyes are wide and shining and his hands are clenching and unclenching and they don’t know whether to remain on Louis’ knees, burning holes in his jeans.

“You already said that,” Louis says, all out grinning now, adoring the flush in Harry’s cheeks.

“Jay – I – I want to help Jay – she’s the only one who cares about me.”

“That’s not true.”

“She’s not?”

“No,” Louis wets his lips, nibbling on his bottom one, preening at the way Harry’s eyes flicker down to the movement.

“Are you saying… you care about me?”

Louis huffs, rolling his eyes, reaching out to shove at Harry’s shoulder, but then his hands catch Louis’ face and the whole world stops because Harry is _kissing_ him. The both of them draw in sharp, deep breaths, the contact like an electric shock, heat fizzling out and raising goosebumps, causing Louis to shiver and whimper as his brain short circuits.

It feels like he’s dived over a waterfall and he’s free and alive and everything is vibrating with colour and sound and Harry makes a noise in his throat and Louis blood rushes downward, and he’s clipping Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, his spine arching inward, pressing them together between Louis’ open legs. His hands bunch in Harry’s curls and they’re soft and silky and his mouth is warm and hot and wet and the world is on fire and he has never been happier to burn in his whole life.

“Hey,” Louis breathes against him, dropping their foreheads together, “guess what?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

Harry splutters and Louis pecks his mouth again, nipping.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, pinching Louis’ side in retaliation. “You’re such a little shit.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, pupils blown wide, grin giddy and dimpling, “I do.”

And well, Louis doesn’t think he’s quite so clueless anymore.


End file.
